Chapter 23
Unwanted
London
Lord Gallant and Lady Clara rode into Hyde Park at the peak of fashionable hour.
It was a strange time for a meal, being sandwiched straight between midday and dinner, but neither Clara nor the duke could fathom being unfashionable.
They paraded through the line of carriages in the man’s shiny, black curricle.
Lord Gallant looked quite the dandy in his bright green suit, a large exotic feather coming out the side of his white top hat.
Clara matched him with a light green dress of her own, but instead of feathers, she had opted for a lacy poke-bonnet with pale pink flowers.
Her maid insisted the headwear drew the attention of Clara’s blue eyes and full, pink lips.
If the two weren’t already the most talked about couple in Town, they certainly would be by the end of the outing.
They stopped the carriage by The Serpentine, a large pond on the far side of the park, and Clara and Isaac walked the banks while the servants arranged the picnic. It was surprisingly dry for a spring day in London. The duke stopped to skip a few rocks across the water’s edge.
“That is quite a skill you have!” Clara praised as he successfully jumped a rock five times across the surface.
“I have had a great deal of practice,” he replied, throwing another round pebble out across the water.
“Do you have a pond back home?” She had grown up with one, but did not know if it was a common estate fixture. Maxwell Manor certainly did not have one.
The duke nodded. “We do, but actually, I was thinking of my summers spent on the beaches in Cornwall. Father and I wasted a good deal of time throwing rocks out into the waves.” His voice was reminiscent of memories passed.
It was by far the most vulnerability she had heard from the man, but before she could ask him to elaborate, his charming smile flashed once again.
“It does not work, I will have you know. The ocean is a horrible place to try and skip rocks.”
“I would imagine so,” Clara replied simply. “So, what took you to Cornwall?” They chatted lightly about Isaac’s Cornwall property, and the fun he had had there as a boy. The duke did not ask her any returning questions.
They discussed several other things as they sat down for the meal.
As always, Luke’s cook had prepared a masterpiece.
“These tarts are delicious!” Isaac exclaimed in surprise as he stuffed several more pear desserts into his mouth.
“Please tell me you purchased them at a corner shop where I can fetch them in large quantities.”
Clara allowed herself to laugh, a bit more than the situation required, sticking her hand on the duke’s arm as she answered, “I am afraid our cook made them, but if you come around for tea this week, I will be sure to have her replicate the experience.”
Lord Gallant sighed in disappointment. “Well, I had better come to tea more often.” He set his gloved hand over her fingers still placed on his forearm.
Clara forced herself to lean in ever so slightly.
“Would you be coming only for the tarts?” she asked with a pouty lip.
The flirtatious playfulness of her question was unmistakable, and surprisingly easy to think up.
She didn’t even realize she knew how to flirt, but it came so naturally, she wondered if perhaps she had done it before without knowing.
Isaac smiled back at her, the innocent, yet real, attraction blatantly splattered across his face. “No, Lady Clara,” he whispered, “the tarts would simply be a bonus.” Regardless of her feelings toward the man, certainly any girl would blush after such a compliment.
She released his arm and straightened up once more, “So, Lord Gallant-” she attempted to change the subject.
“You should call me Isaac.”
Clara looked at him with wide eyes. Calling a suitor by their christian name was not common practice. Perhaps if the wedding date was set and the banns read, but referring to a man by anything other than his title before that was far too personal.
You always called Luke by his given name, her brain mocked, but that was different! They were friends. Isaac and Clara were not. They were a properly arranged, English couple, and should be acting as such.
“I like your title,” she rambled, “it reminds me of a knight. Do you like knights? I am quite fond of them myself. Why, Lord Gallant, have you heard the tale of Joan of Arc-”
The duke put up a hand to stop her, “Clara,” he interrupted, “I have no interest in knights, and I insisted you call me Isaac.” His typical charismatic tone was gone. He sounded like an arrogant king demanding to get his way. It was an instant, startling personality shift.
Clara stopped her rant and dipped her head in submission.
“As you wish, Isaac,” she answered quickly, fearing he may strike her if she did not comply.
A memory of her cousin attacking her in the hat shop flashed in her mind.
Lord Gallant would not hurt her, right? At least not in the park with so many witnesses.
She held her breath, her jaw clenched as it waited for the impact.
As quickly as it had fled, his friendly persona returned, and he laughed and chatted in a perfectly natural way.
Clara tried to relax. He seemed like a good man.
Perhaps she had imagined his lash out. Even still, she couldn’t help but think there was something wrong about the way he had said her name.
Not phonetically of course, nor articulately but …
emotionally? She replayed it over and over in her mind as they rode back in the curricle.
“Clara? Cla-ra? Clar-a?” It sounded strange. Angry. Forceful.
She tuned out the actual Lord Gallant as she slowly played the man’s voice over and over in her mind.
“Clara. Clara.” As she repeated the sound, it shifted, becoming deeper, softer, and more loving.
“Clara, may I have this dance? Clara, have you seen John? Clara, when will you be traveling to Maxwell Manor? Clara … Clara.” Finally, it sounded right.
With a stomach-wrenching twist, she realized it was no longer her current suitor’s voice as the man quietly whispered, “I love you, Clara Anne Merritt. Only you. Now and forever.”
Spain
“How did I ever allow Mother to convince me to come to this?” Luke questioned as he and John entered the loud, busy, and colorful town square.
Luke felt as if his eyes were rolling around his head trying to take it in all at once.
Large flags were positioned on every possible post, blowing in the wind with a flapping sound.
Small tents set up around the perimeter of the cobblestone center sold fruits, nuts, and castanets.
And, of course, there were people. Far too many people.
All milling about, touching, and laughing, and being much friendlier than Luke cared to be.
“It is good for you, Luke!” John gave the man a pat on the back as they looked out across the large party. “Some people would even call this fun.”
“Not us!” Luke grumbled. John simply laughed.
A happy shout coursed through the crowd as a band began playing in the center of it all. “Lord Maxwell!” Miss Flores appeared at his side. “Come! Dance with me!”
“I do not know the dance,” Luke insisted, but it was too late, Valentina had already pulled him into the mix.
John found a partner as well, and soon the whole town was dancing.
The moves were not that dissimilar to English country dancing.
In fact, some of the dances were the exact same, the only difference was no one stopped to change partners.
He was forced to dance with Valentina song after song.
When does it end? He silently questioned, looking around to see if John had any ideas, but the future earl was nowhere to be seen.
After another ten minutes, Valentina gripped his elbow. “I am thirsty!” she announced, leading them from the floor midsong.
If I knew that was an option, I would have left long ago, Luke bemoaned.
Miss Flores pulled him over to a table of drink glasses and drank greedily from one, finishing it quickly. She downed another. “Ready to go again?” she asked, eyeing the dancers as she slammed her empty cup on the sturdy table.
“I think I will head home,” Luke replied, but his comment wasn’t nearly loud enough to be heard over the excitement.
“Come on!” she shouted, clutching his sleeve. The woman was much stronger than one would guess based on her small stature, and any attempts Luke made to lead her in a different direction were futile.
I wonder what Clara would think of this, he thought as he found himself out on the ‘dance floor’ again.
He looked around him, trying to picture the scene from Clara’s point of view.
She would notice the sweet smells, festive music, and smiling people everywhere.
She would comment on the fashion of the men, most wore only shirts and trousers, no neckties or jackets; far less formal than any English party.
She would adore the full skirts of the women, and she would look lovely in the rich, Spanish colors.
If Clara were here, she would take the time to stop and sample food from each vendor, praising their craftsmanship and spending a great deal of money.
By the end of the night, everyone on the square would know her and love her and want to have her attention turned their way.
Yes, Clara would love the festival, and watching her enjoy herself would make Luke love it, too.
He could picture her eyes lit up and sparkling as she twirled and tasted and laughed.
Clara would be at the heart of the merriment, meeting new people, making new friends, and Luke would silently stand next to her, feeling lucky she was a part of his life.
“You are smiling,” Valentina observed. “Why are you smiling?” Her words broke the trance of his imagination.
“Oh, it is nothing,” Luke whispered, shaking his head.
Clara is not part of your life, his brain reminded him. Why, she is probably already married to that duke at this point. He had heard all about Lord Gallant from a letter John received. You will never see her again. You must find happiness some other way. But it seemed an impossible task.
Finally, John emerged from the masses. “Looks like Lord Maxwell is sleeping where he stands!” he told Valentina. “I had better take him home.”
While Luke was grateful for the rescue, he forgot to verbally express it. The entire walk home, his brain remained aloof, frantically reminding him: Clara is not part of your life. You must find happiness some other way. Clara is gone. She is not thinking of you. She couldn't care less.
But as he lay under his worn wool blanket that night, his brain imagined his Clara, promenading through the streets of Spain on his arm.
Her lovely blonde curls poking out from under a kerchief.
Luke felt no desire to urge imaginary Clara any which way.
As long as she was in his arms, he was content.
He pictured her chatting endlessly, and joking, then pulling him into a quiet corner and kissing him senseless.
That is when the fantasy came to a crashing halt.
Clara wouldn't kiss you. Clara does not want you. It was a hard reality to face.
Luke clutched the blanket close against his body, trying to ignore how cold and empty he felt, knowing Clara was not really there.
That she would never be there. That he was not wanted by the person he wanted more than anything in the world.
He tossed and turned uncomfortably for the rest of the night, his thoughts still turned to Clara as the sun began to rise.